


One Thousand Kisses

by Lochinvar



Series: Amuse-bouche [5]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Boys In Love, Boys Kissing, Established Relationship, Everything is Beautiful and Nothing Hurts, Fluff, Fluff and Humor, Food, Food Porn, Hair Products, Humor if you squint, Hunters & Hunting, Kissing, Laser Technology, Love Holds the World Together, M/M, Magic and Science, Quilting, Slice of Life, Soul Bond, Soulmates, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, cherry pie, everyone is happy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-29
Updated: 2019-12-29
Packaged: 2021-02-24 16:20:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,650
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22020856
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lochinvar/pseuds/Lochinvar
Summary: Sam and Dean kiss. A lot.Da Mi Basia MilleGive me a thousand kisses, then a hundred,then another thousand, then a second hundred,then yet another thousand, then a hundred;then, when we have performed many thousands,we shall shake them into confusion, in order for us to lose the count,and in order not to let any evil person envy us,as no one will be aware of how many kisses have there beenCattalus – 84 BC – 54 BC
Relationships: Dean Winchester/Sam Winchester
Series: Amuse-bouche [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1031771
Comments: 59
Kudos: 34





	One Thousand Kisses

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Linden](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Linden/gifts), [BenLMoore](https://archiveofourown.org/users/BenLMoore/gifts), [ADeedWithoutaName](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ADeedWithoutaName/gifts), [JuniperJones](https://archiveofourown.org/users/JuniperJones/gifts), [TheGreenestGreenToEverGreen](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheGreenestGreenToEverGreen/gifts), [Paradigmenwechsel](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Paradigmenwechsel/gifts), [Morgan](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Morgan/gifts), [compo67](https://archiveofourown.org/users/compo67/gifts), [Canon_Is_Relative](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Canon_Is_Relative/gifts), [JhanaMay](https://archiveofourown.org/users/JhanaMay/gifts), [InTheGreySpaces](https://archiveofourown.org/users/InTheGreySpaces/gifts), [fufaraw (arliss)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/arliss/gifts), [stardust_made](https://archiveofourown.org/users/stardust_made/gifts), [genevra1676](https://archiveofourown.org/users/genevra1676/gifts), [BurningTea](https://archiveofourown.org/users/BurningTea/gifts), [urchinesque](https://archiveofourown.org/users/urchinesque/gifts), [kisahawklin](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kisahawklin/gifts), [dragonardhill](https://archiveofourown.org/users/dragonardhill/gifts), [Jenseyeshining](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jenseyeshining/gifts), [Chiefraz](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Chiefraz/gifts), [Fledhyris](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fledhyris/gifts), [Lira_Chimera](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lira_Chimera/gifts), [hellhoundsprey](https://archiveofourown.org/users/hellhoundsprey/gifts), [silver9mm](https://archiveofourown.org/users/silver9mm/gifts).



> Dictionary? Grammar? Style manual? We ain't got no Style manual. We don't need no Style manuals. I don't have to show you any stinkin' Style manuals.
> 
> I own nothing; rely on the talent and kindness of strangers.  
> No Beta; all mistakes are mine to claim and bear.  
> Kudos and comments and bookmarks much appreciated - thank you.
> 
> A holiday gift to some of the people here posting and commenting on A03 who have made me very happy. And if I missed you or could not find you, consider this a thanks to all who post, read, post comments, and leave kudos.
> 
> You don't have to read any of the other works referenced. This can be enjoyed as a one-shot, but it is part of a series, describing their romantic relationship.

After Dean said _Yes_ : See [Permission](https://archiveofourown.org/works/15077234)

“You’re spoiling me,” Dean Winchester murmured into Sam Winchester’s silky mop.

Sealed his declaration with a half-dozen kisses.  
  
To replace the phantom taste of sulphur and ash that haunted the designation _Boy King of Hell,_ he had knighted Sam _My Wilding_ , finding elven wonder in the flecks of amber and moss and aquamarine in the depths of his eyes.

Their pillows were scented with musk, balsam, and bayberry. Dean had custom-blended the recipe for bath gel and shampoo on a mobile app, then sent the special order to a compounding pharmacy in Chicagoland.The bath products, a two-week anniversary present, each cost more than a bottle of Jack Blue. Dean had texted with the pharmacist about the desired effect: the cleansing winds circling the primordial Acadian forests of New Hampshire. The pharmacist approved.

Sam unwrapped the blind-embossed silver box and immediately dragged Dean into the Bunker’s high-pressure shower stall so that they could share. By the end of the day, a very clean and very exhausted Dean had tapped in another order of _Sam’s Very Special Blend_ bath gel. A six pack this time. For the discount, he told his smirking lover.

For their four-week anniversary Sam sent in a request for a concoction he dubbed _My Apple Pie Delight,_ his nickname for the man many considered the best Supernatural Hunter in North America. Ordered a six pack. The bemused pharmacist called to verify the size of the purchase and wondered out loud if the Winchesters owned a busy day spa in…north central rural Kansas?

Just asking, he said.

\-----

Yes, Dean was besotted. Being stupefied by the true love he finally could admit to and embrace was a good look on the Hunter, stunned into happiness. Obsessing about Sam as if he were his first teenage crush erased years of sorrow. And guilt. The consummation of the Soul Bond washed away the black dog depression that shadowed Dean since his residency in the Pit.

In twisted irony, the monstrous cruelty of those Hell years was the result of Dean’s righteous heart: his commitment to protecting little brother Sammy. He reclaimed that commitment when he was rescued from _Perdition._ It had been one of the three purposes in his life–hunting things, saving people, and watching over Sam–that grounded him while he sought penance and redemption in the Hunting Life. Now, he felt forgiven, cleansed by his brother’s kisses, and all that was left was the Soul Bond. And love.

The passion of the younger Winchester was like an archetypal Heartland summer storm with thunder and lightning and wind cleansing the air. Dean felt lighter, even a little disoriented. The weight of the grief–four decades in Hell being tortured and torturing–poisoning every chance he had at happiness–were lifted and blown away, to quote one of the Winchesters’ favorite songs, like _Dust in the Wind._

\-----

They were cuddled on the brand-new California King bed in _their_ room. A flipped silver dollar decided where they would move in together in the Bunker’s spacious quarters. Sam’s insisted on a coin toss; his innate sense of fairness didn’t want to take advantage, again, regarding Dean’s rock/paper/scissors blind spot, adorable as it was. Baby brother pinky-swore not to use his mostly latent demon-blood telekinesis to spin the gelt mid-air in his favor.

Brand-new memory foam and a down topper layered with winter sheets of soft flannel, velvety throws, and a handmade quilt. Sam was rolled burrito-style in the sheets and a once-scratchy surplus-store Army blanket pulled from Baby’s trunk. It had been endlessly washed until beaten into mimicking the soft feel of lambswool.

Sam lay in Dean’s arms while being fed strawberries dipped in dark chocolate, one at a time. Sam sucked on his brother’s fingers, teasing the tips with his tongue. Dean leaned over and peppered kitten-lick kisses on his forehead and nose.

A sip of pretty good dry domestic champagne, extra-bubbly, which Sam found at that amazing liquor store in Omaha ([Spirit World](https://spiritworldwine.com)). Dean held up the mug to the younger Hunter’s lips so he wouldn’t spill. A sip for Dean. Then, one berry for Dean and one for Sam. The coating of chocolate melted in their mouths; the strawberries were bursting with sweet juice.

“You’re spoiling me,” Dean Winchester said.

Sam wormed his way out of his roll of blankets and pulled his green-eyed boy into the first of a series of kisses that lasted until dawn.

\-----

Sam found the quilt at a public library in southern Colorado, the crown jewel of a Friends of the Library fundraiser, which included cookies and cakes, jars of pickles and sweet preserves, and a lemonade and fresh orange juice stand with one of those citrus squeezers _Rube Goldberg_ contraptions borrowed from a county fair vendor. Donated antiques, first editions, and computer equipment to be auctioned off. If the quilt wasn’t bought by the end of the day, the library’s charity would sell lottery tickets and hope for the best.

An eight-foot by eight-foot beauty, the piece had the representations of the seasons stitched into four quadrants with embroidery and appliqués. Each square held a _Tree of Life_ set in a William Morris-inspired pastoral landscape. Thin, lemony-green leaves in early springtime, lush blossoms of pink and vanilla cream in early summer, multi-colored apples for the fall, plucked from the orchards of Avalon, and a maze of branches for winter, black against a snow-covered hill. If you looked closely you could see stray polka dots of scarlet rosehips, crafted from silk velvet.

(A subspecies of American library personnel are wickedly talented quilters.)

Made to be used, touched, not left to hang on a wall and admired from a distance. Imbued with a kind of grace during hours of loving, meticulous attention to detail. This quilter was and is a better artist than Chuck, if truth be told. Most are.

Sam saw it, fell in love instantly, and Dean claimed the work on the spot, despite the discreet hand-written price tag tacked to the wall that read a number on the north side of four figures. Actually, the extravagance made it more appealing to our starry-eyed boychik. Anything for his Sammy.

The head of library reference, a curvy blonde with sparkly earrings and a matching nose piercing, came out from behind her antique golden oak desk, a gift from a local cattleman when they built the Carnegie in 1903, and gave both men an extra squeeze as she hugged her thanks. Pressed her business card into Dean’s hand.

Once upon a time, he would have squeezed back and joined her for a literary nightcap, leaving Sam to a solo evening of Netflix and takeout.

But this time, and now and forever after, he smiled his dazzling Dean smile of pure happiness, something the world had not seen much of since a four-year-old boy bounced and giggled in his daddy’s arms, turned to Sam, pulled him down by the collar so he could reach him without having to stand tippy-toe, even though that was a turn-on in the right circumstances, and kissed him well, once and again, in front of all of the library staff, their patrons, and the Friends group’s volunteers.

Sam leaned in and deepened the kiss, reaching for Dean and holding his face between his Ent-sized hands. And the Soul Bond, which might, if made visible, appear as translucent satin ribbons weaving around the Winchesters, danced its approval.

The world shifted. The psychic blast of energy from the kiss stirred papers on the reference librarian’s desk and blew open the front door of the library. The American flag on the pole in front of the building fluttered in a nonexistent breeze. The tunnel of a long-forgotten coal mine, running 300 feet below the building, stirred, coughed, and went back to sleep.

The public kisses were new, as was the fact that Sam didn’t blush or hesitate. His confidence was new as well. The reference librarian, on the other hand, did blush, and sigh, but didn’t looked away.

Reluctantly, the two men stepped apart. Reverently, Sam removed the quilt from the wall, folded it with help from two starry-eyed tweenaged library pages, and smiled his thanks. Hugged the bundle to his chest.

Dean surrendered payment to the president of the Friends group, a thick wad of bank-crisp fifty- and hundred-dollar bills with an extra Benjamin thrown in for a tray of cookies and two glasses of fresh-squeezed orange juice, just because he could.

\-----

After he said _Yes,_ the older Hunter carried more hard cash _._ Had more reasons to buy things for _His Babe._ _His._ Of course, technically the money belonged to both brothers, less from chicanery and hustling pool and more from selling off the dragon’s trove that filled the Bunker’s storage rooms, from rare china sets to antique cars. But it gave Dean special pleasure to step up and be the one to indulge Sam: better books, nicer shirts, organic veggies out of season, and always the latest computing devices.

To pay and watch Sam dimple, over and over. Sam would seal his thanks sweetly with a kiss brushed on Dean’s freckled cheek or his lips. Meant to be quick but tended to linger.

After each thank-you, Dean would repeat his new mantra.

“You’re spoiling me.”

\-----

The giant screen that hung on the wall of the _Hunter’s Cave_ (deserved a new name) was on mute or, as Dean liked to call it, _Mime Mode,_ flashing color and light silently across the room. The boys had been engaged in supplying dialog and commentary to an Antonio Banderas _Zorro_ movie marathon–sound off. Yes, both movies, including the ersatz sequel. (Come on, the horse was awesome.) Knew the scripts well enough to intelligently abuse scenes while keeping to the films’ canons: their version of _Mystery Science Theater 3000._ Critiqued the fight scenes and sword play. Admired Catherine Zeta-Jones but realized she might be too much woman for either Winchester (or both). Wondered if Anthony Hopkins had ever been a Hunter.

They shared the giant couch that the Angel Castiel had teleported into the room as a favor, even though they could have wrestled it through the garage and up the stairs eventually. It was one of those deluxe leather behemoths with built-in adjoining recliner sections and fold-out trays.

“Awesome,” said Dean at the mega furniture store in suburban Wichita. Sam agreed and kissed him.

Feet up and swaddled in outrageous fluffy bear paw slippers. Sam’s pair could have easily accommodated a papa Kodiak. To keep the nonexistent chill off their aging bones tucked under an extra-large woven cotton summer blanket that looked like it had been lifted from a 1940s beach house on the shores of Lake Michigan. Pale blue and green stripes bleached from being loved too many years in sun and water and the breezes off the lake. 

They shared a platter of their new version of movie food, morsels put together by Sam, who was cooking more.

Dean was shopping more. Real ingredients.

Sam was hand-feeding tidbits to Dean, who by the rules, had to keep looking at the screen, not the food, eat what Sam gave him, and score it, honestly. Dean could tap out any time by whispering Poughkeepsie if his mouth wasn’t full.

There were dates stuffed with a mix of cream cheese and minced fresh apricots, figs split and wrapped around toasted walnuts, and an array of what Dean called _nanotarts,_ a Sam invention consisting of shims of buttery shortbread dabbed with thick whipped cream, gluing together, for example, one raspberry and one sliver of peach. A bowl of pitted cherries soaked in brandy.

Piled shards of roast beef and kosher salami and pastrami on square slices of rye and pumpernickel with schmearettas of mustard and horseradish, but no mayo on pain of something or other. Rufus taught them well.

Discs of kosher dills with a red-pepper bite. Crackers, scented with rosemary, and one slice of Maytag blue cheese and a transparent round of cucumber paired with a meaty crown cut from a yellow heirloom tomato.

And more kisses, one for each bite, then two kisses, then three, and the platter was empty, and the kissing went on forever till they were folded in each other’s arms, matching heartbeat and breath, Catherine and the awesome horse both forgotten.

\-----

Dean drank less. Sam ate more pie. Dan read more classic fiction and spent more time in used bookstores. Sam flirted more and danced with the regulars at county roadhouses when they stopped to revive after hunts. Dean lost a little weight, sharpening his jawline and deepening the wrinkles around his eyes. Sam gained a little weight, softening his jawline and deepening his dimples.

\-----

The Soul Bond seemed to have other benefits besides stamina, if you get my drift. The Winchesters noticed that they were uncovering more cases, and their success rate was at an all-time high. The psychic wavelength, which had manifested when they were children as their knowing what the other brother was doing and feeling, seemed to grow stronger. Not just in that cute way they had of saying the same thing at the same time or of catching beer bottles without looking. Interviews ran smoother, law enforcement officers were more trusting and listened to their advice more willingly. Other Hunters seemed less combative and deferred to the Winchesters’ leadership.

Months after their wedding in Colorado (See [Honeymoon](archiveofourown.org/works/18316889)) and the subsequent multiple big reveals to their closest and dearest (which were a big letdown because no one was surprised and everyone ignored the couple while arguing over bets placed years before), Dean and Sam tried to explain these phenomena to the elders of their brain trust. They were at an extended _Team Free Will_ gathering in Sioux Falls, South Dakota. Their tongues were loosened with a food-coma inducing feast that inhabitants of northern tier states excel at. The fried macaroni-and-cheese balls, the do-it-yourself ham sandwich bar, the cauldron of beer cheese soup, and the roasted Renaissance Festival-style turkey legs did them in. And three kegs’ worth of something from a local microbrewery, deceptively fresh and light and citrus-y.

The Winchesters tripped over each other’s sentences in their eagerness to explain to the four wisest people they knew about the changes that had happened since Sam asked that one last time, and Dean said _Yes._

Ellen Harvelle shook her head and washed down a bite of peach cobbler with a swig of the beer. Even Pastor James Murphy rolled his eyes.

“Didn’t you idjits ever see that Disney cry-fest _Dumbo_? You’re like each other’s feather, dammit,” said an exasperated Bobby Singer.

(The old Hunter didn’t cry when he first saw it as a kid on television at a friend’s house in the 50s. Nope. And not when he bought the videotape. Or the DVD. Or loaded it onto his computer from iTunes with a little help from Sam. Nope again.)

Bobby leaned back in his chair and discreetly unnotched his belt and unbuttoned the top of his jeans to make room for another slice from one of the good pastor’s cherry pies, made from cold-weather Meteor and North Star Minnesota varietals. Sassy and sweet.

Jim’s specialty, with a lattice crust stamped with wards and sigils.

The religious Adept had trucked four of those pastries, wrapped in parchment paper and baffled in bubble wrap, across I-90 from his Blue Earth, Minnesota home, along with deadly gifts of twin Viking _Ulfberht_ swords, found hidden under a church in Lithuania, within a stone altar where snakes once were worshipped. A belated wedding present for the Winchesters.

Rufus Turner nodded in agreement with Bobby's assessment.

“Just a kind of placebo effect, rose-colored glasses, or something,” the old Hunter said.

“The only thing that changed is that the two of you are so Chuck-damn happy all the time that you must be giving off some exotic pheromones.”

Rufus sniffed the air suspiciously.

“Hell, you both smell like fir trees.”

He inhaled again, leaning in.

“And apple pie?”

Sam grinned, and Dean tried unsuccessfully to look innocent. But neither Winchester blushed.

Rufus had contributed two homemade maple sugar pound cakes soaked in bourbon. Sam had swayed when he stood up after the first slice, grabbed Dean’s shoulder for ballast, and sat down slowly, not to rise again for the rest of the evening, eating baby bites of everything until he fell asleep, snuggled against his big brother’s shoulder on one of Bobby’s old sagging couches.

“He’s spoiling me,” said Dean to no one in particular.

\-----

But it wasn’t just that their relationships with humans in the Hunting world that had improved, not just about a steady broadcast of happy-face endorphins that were making them more likable, better at building rapport.

The two Hunters were coordinated in battles in a way they both found creepy-good. They could dodge fist and fang and claw and poisoned blade before they saw them coming. Hex bags had little effect. Neither Winchester had been slammed against a wall in weeks. Sam checked their duffels for an overlooked lucky coin or a rabbit’s foot, maybe a hidden gift from Rowena or one of their White Witch acquaintances. Nope, just the usual flotsam and jetsam from life on the road.

They had tracked a homicidal demon as it jumped from vessel to vessel, from a ski resort in Utah to a Forest Service cabin in southern Montana. And when the possessed deputy sheriff sprayed Dean and Sam with his 12-gauge Remington 870, the steel shot peppered the wall behind them, but left voids roughly in the shape of the two men, frozen in surprise. While the demon attempted to reload, Dean soaked its vessel with a kid’s toy blaster (picked up at a yard sale and added to their stash of weaponry) filled with holy water while Sam shouted a command in the form of a shortened exorcism that, as the spirit smoked out in panic, sent it back to Hell.

“Made a couple of dealers, chased them off, but your man had second-hand contact with some bad drugs,” said Sam, turning the uninjured but confused law enforcement officer over to his partner, who arrived ten minutes _after_ the nick of time. Flashed their DEA badges (Special Agents McCarthy and Swift). Explained why the man was soaked, he and Special Agent Swift trying to rinse the unidentified chemical the bad guys tossed on the deputy off his body with some bottled water they had with them.

The local helped his friend out the door and into a four-wheel drive, siren running, taking him to the nearest clinic in the next county for detoxing and observation, while the agents promised to look for evidence and file a report.

Waited until the squall of the siren faded. Dean traced the silhouettes on the wall of the cabin with a shaky finger. He pulled his shirt out of his pants and peeked at his stomach and chest. Nothing. Pointed to Sam, who shrugged and checked himself. No blood, no bruising, no torn cloth. Decided to leave the shot in the wood paneling as a mystery for the next visitors to solve and left.

Word went out, and demons kept at least one state line between themselves and the Winchesters from then on.

\-----

The Angel Castiel was not surprised. He had known that their union, though delayed, was inevitable, and he knew the equally inevitable result.  
  
Love holds the universe together, from the gravitational pull of stars to a starry-eyed family elder holding their first great-grandchild. It was common knowledge that Sam and Dean were “better together”.

Soul Bonds strengthened the members of blessed families by unlocking latent reserves of health and happiness, even without the physical intimacy that existed between mates.

But the spiritual mechanism that they had been experiencing went beyond inspiring one’s sibling to do their best in a heart-to-heart over beer and pretzels or unexpectedly channeling a parent’s skill at baking a cake or fixing a broken shelf, tacitly passed on by years of watching adults’ mastery of cooking and carpentry.

The Soul Bond, a sentient entity on Its own, was swapping out the brothers’ inherent Supernatural-charged abilities handed down via generations of Hunters, Adepts, and Humans/Creatures of Letters. What scientists might call a type of horizontal gene transfer was, in this case, a two-way exchange.

Meaning both men were becoming smarter, faster, stronger: sharing amplified demon-blood telekinesis and clairvoyance, the invulnerability and strength of the Mark, and the tempering of their courage during the years in Hell and Purgatory, plus their individual experiences during decades of cases.

How was Dean becoming an expert in the Stanford University pre-law curriculum? How was Sam acquiring the muscle memory of a lifetime of cleaning and repairing their collection of artillery? Unconsciously, Dean was flicking knives out of the hands of the possessed and was reciting spells he didn’t know he knew. Sam’s fighting instincts were being honed to the atom-thin edge of an obsidian blade, winning confrontations with monsters that might have overpowered him in the day.

Every time they made love. Every time they kissed. Strengthening the Bond.

By the way, those silver wedding bands that Castiel helped Sam design? (See [Better Half](archiveofourown.org/works/15229770) ) They are like a “gain medium”, such as those specialized crystals, gases, and glass materials that can amplify laser beams. Which is why the transfer and increase in power stepped up after they were formally married. Wasn’t the modest ceremony in Denver. Was the rings.

Castiel never told the Winchesters what was happening. Knew they would figure it out for themselves some day.

\-----

“Two king beds,” said Sam to the motel clerk and winked at Dean.

“Need the extra space for our duffle bags.”  
  
Dean tippy toed up, kissed his husband’s cheek, and went out to unpack Baby.

“He spoils me,” said Sam, without blushing, and paid the bill.

**Author's Note:**

> Dean's nickname for Sam, My Wilding, I stole from a friend. She rescued a mustang from a horse auction and is slowly adjusting the horse to domestic life with a new herd family. 
> 
> Can two people in love kiss that much? Personal experience says yes.
> 
> That liquor store in Omaha is the best I have ever visited.
> 
> Please never put mayo on salami or pastrami. Like, never.
> 
> Coming on to five years of reading and writing fan fiction. Thank you, readers and writers.


End file.
